Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [74]
From the road the villa Paquette had bought looked like nothing more than a cottage painted a soft pastel blue. But from the end of the line of houses that followed the curve of the bay, Sara could see that it extended four stories down a cliff face to a rocky beach and a slipway where pleasure boats rocked gently against a pier. Terraced gardens of palm trees and brilliant flowers flowed down the cliff almost to the shore.
The view across Killiney Bay was stunning, with low hills and a distant mountain sheared off at the top standing on a headland under a gun-metal cloud bank.
“It’s glorious,” Sara said.
“Certainly a place where one could settle in and live comfortably,” Fitzmaurice replied.
Sara laughed at Fitzmaurice’s sarcasm. “Let’s make sure Spalding doesn’t get that chance.”
The storefront office of the auctioneer and estate agent who’d handled the sale of the villa was closed. A note attached to the door said that the agent, a man named Liam Quinn, was off showing property and would be back in the afternoon.
Fitzmaurice tried Quinn’s mobile telephone number, got no response, and left a brief voice message asking him to ring back when he returned to the office.
“While we’re waiting for Quinn to call, let’s ask around for Mr. Spalding at some of the hotels, guesthouses, and inns,” he said.
Working from a tourist guide of area accommodations, they stopped at the few downtown hotels before widening their search to self-catering apartments, short-term rental units, and bed-and-breakfast establishments. Just as they were about to give up canvassing and head off for a quick lunch, the estate agent rang Fitzmaurice on his mobile and said he was on his way back to his office.
“Let’s hope he has something to offer,” Fitzmaurice said as he clipped the phone to his belt. “Otherwise we’ll need at least two more days and many more officers to query every innkeeper and hotelier in the area.”
“Have you met or spoken to Quinn before?” Sara asked.
Fitzmaurice shook his head. “No, I sent one of my detectives around to see him.”
“So he doesn’t know you’re a peeler.”
Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up. “Are you thinking we should present ourselves as prospective clients?”
Sara nodded. “Let’s string him along and see where it leads.”
“You’re a gifted schemer, Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”
Sara laughed. “With a willing accomplice, Detective Inspector Fitzmaurice.”
Fitzmaurice found a car park within easy walking distance of Quinn’s storefront office and they passed along a street of two- and three-story stone buildings with brightly painted trim work that housed retail shops featuring Irish crystal, linens and woolens, posters and prints, Celtic jewelry and trinkets, and souvenir T-shirts and hats, all geared to the tourist trade.
Although the architecture and landscape were different, the area reminded Sara of the shops on the Santa Fe Plaza, where the store clerks assumed all their customers were from out of town. Kerney and Fitzmaurice, strangers living two continents apart, were right to complain about theme-park mentality and crass consumerism. It was everywhere and it sucked.
Liam Quinn greeted them with a smile and a hearty handshake when they entered his office. In his mid-thirties, he had a ruddy complexion, red hair cut short and brushed forward, and a narrow nose that ended abruptly above thin lips. He wore a white shirt and striped tie, a light wool tweed sport coat, and dress slacks. The office was nicely furnished with an antique desk and an old-fashioned wooden chair on casters, a credenza with a desktop computer, printer, and fax machine on top, several comfortable easy chairs, and a round conference table with four matching straight-backed chairs. One wall featured flyers with photographs and descriptions of available properties. Hung on the opposite wall were several framed posters